Chapter One – The Girl in the Yellow Dress

Hazel

Truth be told, the dress is ugly.

Cosima compliments it, of course, and I almost have to stifle a laugh. It's a fluffy, yellow thing, with layers upon layers of material to puff up the hem and sleeves the size of those balls that I'd seen Capitol children play with on the beach. The girl herself doesn't suit it at all; tanned skin, long brown hair in a ponytail and deep brown eyes that stare at Cosima, tearfully glazed over with such intense emotion that I'm almost entirely unsure what they convey. I've forgotten her first name already, but her surname, 'Mason', gives me enough to go by. She isn't rich, that's for sure. Those with enough privilege in Seven to forego the hard labour tend to have different surnames than the typical Oakes' and Mason's that make up the majority of the district. I can't tell if she's any good or strong under all that fabric. Judging by the tears, it seems unlikely.

Cosima is quick to recover, however, when the girl barely mutters an inaudible response to her compliment. I have to admire her for that, she's always been good at keeping the ball rolling, no matter what's thrown her way. As far as I know, she'd always been like that – ever since my own reaping, when my district partner had called her a 'lavender whore' live on stage. I suppose after that, everything is a walk in the park to her.

As soon as she walks to the other side of the stage to pick out whatever poor boy is going to be sent to the slaughter and I know the cameras aren't going to be on me, I lean in to whisper to Blight.

"Dibs on the girl."

He looks a little surprised but shrugs his shoulders. "Her? Suit yourself."

I do pick up the name of the boy, once he is called. Ainsley Coutts. It takes him a while to stagger up from the fifteen-year-old section, and when he does, it does not look good. He's tall, yes, but painfully skinny, with pale skin and slightly blue lips. A Flinch addiction, from the looks of it. You'll see those types around the outskirts of Seven; most of them orphans or jobless, walking around in a dazed stupor. Next to me, I hear Blight mutter out a curse. Internally, I do the same. It looks like Seven is doomed for another hopeless year.

If Cosima feels the same way as we do, she doesn't betray it on her face. Instead she grabs both of the tribute's hands – the girl looking at her in some sort of daze, and the boy barely responding – and holds them up high.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, your District Seven Tributes for the Seventy-First Hunger Games, Johanna Mason and Ainsley Coutts."

Blight takes that moment, as the audience is distracted, to give me a sad smile.

"It's alright, Hazel," he says. "There's always next year."

I nod, tightly, as if it doesn't affect me. Sometimes I wonder how he can be so nonchalant about this, but I remember that he has over a decade of this under his belt, and I've barely had three years to get used to mentoring. As much as Blight is family, part of me hopes I'll never end up like him. Another part of me hopes I'll end up just as hard and unsurprised.

As it turns out, Johanna Mason is anything but unsurprising.

I find her in the living cart about an hour after the train leaves, looking out the window. She's changed out of the dress, and instead dons a light green sweater and flowy trousers. Her eyes are fixed outside the window, watching the lights of our home district fade in the distance of the quickly-darkening night.

"It's a funny sight, isn't it?" I remark, and point to the empty seat opposite her. She says nothing, but shrugs, and as I decide to sit, her eyes meet mine. They're a peculiar colour, so dark that they're almost black. I can see myself reflected in them, two tiny versions of me peering down at her curiously. It's almost frightening.

We sit there for a moment, in silence, watching until District Seven fades into obscurity. I remember watching it disappear before my own games, my face pressed so close to the glass I could barely breathe, grappling for what I expected would be my final memory of home. I wonder of Johanna feels the same; watching her life be stripped away from her open palms. I'd wondered the same about the other tributes I'd sat in this very car with; Queenie, Farrah, Vago, Ashley. Felicis. For all of them, that sight had really been their last glimpse of home.

"Are you afraid?" I ask, after a moment.

"I would be stupid not to be," she says, and I'm taken aback. It's the first time I've heard her speak and it comes out far lower, far more biting than I would have expected from her. Those brown eyes lock with mine, fierce and intense, and for the first time in my past two years as mentor, I see a fire behind them.

"Good," I say. "Fear will keep you alive."

She scoffs at that. "Fear won't do anything. The only thing that will keep me alive is if every other tribute in the arena drops dead."

I suppose she's right. "Still, it's a good place to start."

I take a look at her, up and down. She's seventeen – a good age, but odds are a good half of tributes, including the Careers will be the same age, or older – and lean. The fabric of the sweater hides her shoulders, but I can tell they're strong and muscled. If she's been working in the woods, she'll be good with an axe, if she's lucky enough to have one in the arena. But we've had axes for the past four years. I wouldn't bet on this being her lucky break.

"Does crying at the reapings make you look weak?" she asks, all of a sudden, and I almost jump at the demand in her voice.

"Plenty of tributes cry at the reapings."

"Be honest."

I sigh. "Yes. It does. Especially in that dress of yours. You're at a disadvantage from the start."

She looks pleased. "Good."

"Excuse me?" I lean in.

"Good. I want to be underestimated."

I frown. This is an angle I've heard of once or twice, but I've never seen it played out in the Games in recent history, by virtue of it never actually working out in the tribute's favour. It tends to go one of two ways; either the tribute gets chopped off by fellow competitors early on, when they're seen as an early target, or they end up dying once the lack of sponsorships rears its ugly head. Plenty of talented, durable tributes die every year because of starvation or exposure.

"I know…" she continues, seeing the look on my face. "But if I make it out of the bloodbath and hunt and kill someone early on, they'll know that I'm good, right? That it was just a strategy?"

"Predicting the Capitol's response to anything is a risky move. But, yes, in theory, that could work."

"Good." She crosses her arms and leans back in the chair.

"So, I suppose what you're asking is for me to keep this on the down-low?"

"If you can."

"Well," I sigh. The strength of resolve in Johanna is intimidating. "We'll keep it from Cosima - bless her heart but she can't keep a secret to save her life – Blight and your stylist will need to know, but…"

"No," she interrupts. "Nobody else. Just you."

I frown. "Johanna, you need to understand, this is an incredible delicate angle. You need as many people on your side as possible, if you're strong we need to hide that."

"Just you," she repeats. "Tell them lies, I don't care. I don't want anyone else knowing."

Why? I want to ask, but I keep my lips shut. Surely she'd trust someone like Blight with her angle; he's been a mentor for far longer than I have, and unlike me, he's had two successes in his career. I want to pull her into a corner and ask her a million more questions, but before I can open my mouth, there's the unmistakable sound of high heels from the far end of the train, and the familiar figure of Cosima arrives with two other people in tow. The first is the boy tribute, Ainsley, who seems to be swaying back and forth. Whether that be from shock, motion illness or from being completely doped out, it's impossible to tell. Behind him is Blight, who meets my eyes and crosses his arms. I can hear what he's telling me without him having to say it. Hopeless.

"Ah, here she is," Cosima beams, noticing Johanna. "My sweet girl, you took off the dress! But what a lovely thing it was, did you make it yourself?

"No," mutters Johanna, and it takes me a moment to process the difference in her speech; eyes downturned, voice soft and flat. Oh, I think. She's good.

"Your mother's, then?"

Johanna nods once, swiftly. "I miss her."

"Oh, my dear," Cosima brushes past, squeezing her umbrella-like dress into the gap between the seats and taking hold of Johanna's hands. They look comically small next to her long, painted nails, but I can see the way that they're calloused and hardened from long hours of labour. "I understand. I have two sons, you see, and they live oh-so far away from the Tribute Centre, so whenever the Games begin, I can't see them for months. It feels awful, terribly awful, but you'll make it through."

I have to hide my scoff behind my hand and disguise it as a cough. Trust Cosima to equate going away for a work trip with the very-real possibility of dying before you see your loved ones again. She's well meaning, bless her, but doesn't have a single speck of wisdom in that brain of hers.

"What about you, Ainsley," I ask. The boy looks at me, blinking once, twice. Part of me wants to go up and steady his shoulders so he doesn't keel over. "What family do you have?"

"Two brothers," he says, slowly. "Older than me."

"Oh, do they work in the forests, then?" He nods. "And do you?" A half-jerk, half-nod.

"What about you, Johanna?" Cosima peers over the girl. "Do you work in the forests?"

"No," she says. "Mommy and Daddy have good jobs. They said I don't need to work until I'm eighteen."

Liar, I think. Anyone who knows anything about Seven could tell Johanna's worked hard every day of her life just by looking at her carefully. But Cosima doesn't notice, and instead gives her a pained smile. If Blight does, he doesn't say anything.

"We're going to need a medic for Ainsley, once we arrive," he says, once Cosima has squeezed out of the tight seating to give Johanna some room to breathe. "He's not looking good."

I take another glance at the boy, and it's pretty clear that Blight's diagnosis is right on, 'not good' just about describes it. Flinch withdrawal, from the looks of it; normally he'd probably have taken at least one more hit since we've been on the train and the effects are already wearing him out.

"Cosima, find us a bucket," I say, quickly. If he throws up, I am not going to be able to stand the smell of leftover vomit on the carpet. For what it's worth, Cosima nods and walks briskly away, muttering something about dinner being in two hours.

"So," Blight begins, once she's out of the way. "Tomorrow morning you'll arrive in the Capitol. There'll be cameras at the station, so make sure you look good, but your stylists will spruce it all up anyways."

He goes on. I've heard this spiel four times now, so I tune out a little, but both of the tributes are paying keen attention. Well, Ainsley is trying. Johanna, however, has her eyes locked intently on his, paying careful attention to every word that leaves his lips. It reminds me a bit of the look Felicis had given Blight four years ago, when we'd been sat in this very compartment. I remember how he'd mouthed the words back, as if they'd be some kind of lifeline he could cling to. And then I think of the arrow plunged into his gut. Fat lot of luck that did him, I think, bitterly.

"You've got two hours until dinner," he says. "Cosima will find you. Do what you want to in the meantime."

Ainsley nods and stands up to hobble away, teetering slightly to the left before staggering out of the compartment. Johanna remains sat, looking out the window, and Blight gives her a look, before his eyes meet mine. I think it's ridiculous that he can't know what she's planning, but I don't want to lose the trust of my tribute so soon. Still, when he opens his mouth, I can't help but hope he's noticed.

Instead, he says. "Flinch isn't illegal in the Capitol, is it?"

"I don't think so," I pause. I think I've seen some passed around at parties and at the events I'm forced to attend every time I return to the Capitol. "Are you thinking…"

"Yes," he says, quickly. "If you agree."

"Okay. He's your tribute."

"That's not what I'm asking, Hazel."

"Okay," I repeat. "If he was mine, I'd do the same."

"That's what I wanted to hear," he says, and with a final glance of Johanna, he walks towards the door. "I'll talk to Cosima. Hopefully we can have something ready by the time we arrive tomorrow."

The door slides shut. There is a pause. And then.

"What the fuck," Johanna hisses, snapping her gaze from the window back at me. "Are you kidding me? You're just going to fucking dope him up for the rest of the week? You're going to kill him if you do that, he's as good as gone once he's in the arena without any."

"Johanna," I say, lowering my voice. You never know who's listening, once you're in Capitol territory. "He's as good as dead. We might as well make his last few days a bit more comfortable."

"I knew it," she stands up. "You're not on our side, nobody is. I shouldn't have trusted you."

"How many people have you seen recover from a Flinch addition? And how many of those people did it in a week? Listen, Johanna, you know it's ridiculous…"

"I don't want to hear anything from you." She stands up, clenching her fists. "I saw what you did. You're monsters, all of you!"

And as she storms away down the hall, part of me agrees.